Traces of Her
by Miasen
Summary: A few weeks after Alcatraz and Logan is having difficulties coping with the fact that Jean Grey is gone. He deals in his own way, but something he didn't expect is about to happen.


TRACES OF HER

No one seemed to notice as Logan walked out the doors of the mansion on Graymalkin Lane and that suited him perfectly. He preferred to be left alone these days, couldn't deal with other people. He'd spent most of his time, at least the one he remembered, as a lone wolf, spending as little time as possible around people. But then he'd come to the mansion and somehow the other X-Men had managed to tame the Wolverine. But he was starting to feel his old ways resurfacing. He longed to hit the road and never look back. Longed to be alone. Longed to escape.

But for some reason he stayed. He wasn't sure why, but he just couldn't seem to leave. He didn't know if it was because of the responsibility he now had—he was needed more than ever at the mansion—or if it was the convenience of having a place to call home. Or maybe it was because of _her_. Because even if she was gone this place seemed to remind him of her. He would be in the medilab and all he could see was her in her white doctor's coat and for a moment it seemed like she actually was in the room, like the very first time he had laid eyes on her. Or he would walk past the door to the room that had once been her bedroom and find himself imagining that she would exit through that door any minute. He could almost see the smile she would have then, the twinkle to her eyes, a throw of the head that would send her red hair flowing down her back. But she never exited that door, and in the medilab only Hank McCoy resided whenever he came to help out.

Jean Grey would never come back, she was gone, and that fact was slowly killing him inside. He wished that there was something he could do. If he could trade his miserable life for hers, to die so she could live, he would do it in a heartbeat. She had been everything that was good in the world. Beautiful, kind, strong—she'd been the woman of his dream, and she would always have that position. There was no one that could ever rival her place in his heart.

Logan made his way over to the garage, and with a last glance back at the mansion he went inside. A black motorcycle that had once belonged to Scott Summers stood right inside the door. A matching black crash helmet lay forgotten beside it. Wolverine didn't bother about wearing a helmet, he never did. If he got in an accident his body would heal him almost instantly, so he didn't see why he should care about the restrictive shell.

He kicked the motorcycle to life and swung a leg over it. He'd been in love with the bike since the first moment he'd seen it. Scott had really used his geeky knowledge of motors and vehicles for something good when he built this, it was the perfect bike. It listened to every little command he made, and the speeds he could get it into was beyond impressive. He knew that if he took the road that led down Graymalkin Lane in the opposite direction of Salem Center there would be lots of roads he could take, roads that would lead him far away from the mansion in a short time if he used the bike. But again, he couldn't leave, so when he left the gates he took the road that led into Salem Center. It was a small town, but it did have a bar, and that was all that Logan was after. Some place to sit in silence with a steady flow of beer coming his way. They even had some Canadian beer there, and that was the very best kind of beer.

But even good beer couldn't help him drown his sorrows, no beer could do that. His healing power killed the effects of the alcohol long before he got drunk. But that didn't mean he couldn't try, and that he very much intended to do.

As he parked his bike outside Charlie's Bar the last rays from the sun disappeared behind the hills and it was officially night. The streets were empty as he cast a glance around them; all he could see was a young woman walking her dog and a small gang of teenage boys out to create trouble. But that really wasn't his worry, they could create all the trouble they wanted for all that he cared. All he wanted now was beer, and lots of it.

The lights were dimmed inside the bar, and together with the interior that was all done in dark brown it almost made it difficult to see where you were going. If you were a regular human without heightened senses that was. Logan easily made his way to the bar and took the stool that was placed at the very end. That way he only had the wooden wall on one side, and an available stool that he hoped no one would take on his other side.

"Molson," he stated as the bartender walked over to him. The bartender only nodded and turned around the fetch a bottle of the Canadian beer. He was long since gotten used to the stranger with the weird hair that always sat in the same stool and always drank the same beer. Logan was a regular here, but even so the bartender ignored him for the exception of giving him more beer—and that was a brownie point for him. Logan really didn't want to talk to anyone whenever he came here, he just wanted to drink his beer and be left alone.

Logan's gaze was looked on the wooden surface of the bar when the bartender came with the beer. Logan didn't bother looking up, only nodded slightly and reached for the bottle. It was cold, and he could smell that it was good beer. He pulled the bottle towards him and took a deep sip, relishing in how the cool liquid tasted.

For just that little fraction of a second he forgot everything, but then the memories came crashing back like they always did. His fist tightened around the neck of the beer bottle, and soon the bottle shattered under his grip. He barely noticed, only stared at his hand and the mess he'd created with an empty look in his eyes. The inside of his palm were marked with a dozen cuts of various size, and in several pieces of dark brown glass was wedged in the wounds. But, even as he looked at it, the wounds healed and the pieces of glass fell to the table where they joined a multitude of other shards. A small pool of beer spread from the pile of glass, and soon some of it trickled over the edge of the bar to drip towards the floor in a steady rhythm. Logan didn't bother drying it up, didn't bother clean the blood from his now perfectly healed hand, didn't bother about anything but move his stool a few inches to the side so the beer wouldn't drip on him. Then he slowly lifted his gaze, met that of the bartender and nodded for a new beer.

The bartender didn't even lift an eyebrow but brought him a new beer and quickly mopped up the mess Logan had made. It certainly wasn't the first time something like that had happened, and he knew that Logan would pay for everything he drank or spilled, so he didn't make a fuss about it.

Logan paid little notice to the bartender and turned in the stool to look out over the bar. Several patrons had arrived after him, and the bar was closing in on half full now, and that didn't happen too often. The stool next to Logan was still empty however, and with the glare he now sent the room he was certain it would stay that way until he left.

Just as he glanced over to the door of the bar it opened, and a young couple entered. For a moment Logan's heart stopped. Just a flash of red hair as the girl threw her head back and laughed and Logan almost started crying. It was quite obvious that it wasn't Jean, but every time he saw a redhead he for a split second thought that it might be here, that all the horror of the last weeks since Alcatraz was just a very bad dream.

He had no idea how many redheads he'd turned after on the street, but it was never Jean, it never would be Jean. She was dead and buried and lost to this world. He could only hope she was somewhere better, somewhere she deserved to be. She'd always been too good for this world, too great for this world.

He turned back around to face the bar and the fourth beer of the night. He couldn't stand watching the couple; they just seemed so blissfully happy, something he'd never be. He'd have to go through this life alone, grieving the loss of what could have been.

The love he'd had for Jean had never been easy. There had been Scott of course, who'd been in the picture for ages before Logan. But there was a primal desire between Jean and Logan that made him think, made him feel, that he still had a chance with her. He could see it in her eyes, could smell it, could sense the reaction he had on her, so he never gave up hope. But then Jean apparently died at Alkali Lake, and he'd mourned her, felt an emptiness in his heart that hadn't been there before and that never would be healed.

But Jean came back, only it wasn't truly Jean anymore, it was the Phoenix. But he had hope then, hope that she could be saved, could come back to them. But in the end the only way he could save her was to grant her the only wish she had. He had been forced to kill her to save her.

Logan clenched his fist again, but this time there was no beer bottle in his hand that could break. He felt a sharp pain and heard a distinctive _snikt_ as his claws slid out of their housings in his forearms.

He stared down at the silvery blades that protruded from between his knuckles. He had no idea how many lives those blades had claimed, but none of those lives had hurt more than that of Jean Grey.

The faces of those he'd killed had faded and were long forgotten, but the loss of Jean and the look on her face as he drove his adamantium claws into her body—that was a memory even his healing factor couldn't erase. That moment of pain before gratitude took over. Pain as his claws pressed their way through her soft skin to her vulnerable gut.

But even as the picture haunted him he knew he wouldn't have erased the memory from his mind, even if he could. Jean was the only one he'd ever truly cared about, but now she was dead and he wanted to treasure every single memory, even the bad ones. He'd lost so many of his memories, didn't know who he truly was, but Jean Grey would forever live in his heart. It was the one memory he couldn't lose. It was with Jean he'd changed and become what he was now. A man with a home and a purpose. No longer a lonely drifter, but a _hero_, an X-Man. She'd changed him to the better.

A single salty tear slid down his cheek and caught in his beard. He didn't care if anyone saw, didn't mind. He had lost the one he loved—he was allowed to grieve in whatever way he wanted. He wished so badly that he could follow her. Just ram those claws into his own body and follow her into death. But he couldn't, his powers wouldn't allow him to die, not like that, possibly not at all. He'd been shot straight in the head, and all that had brought with it was a slight headache. No, it didn't seem like the Wolverine wasn't going to leave this world anytime soon. In all likelihood not until he grew old and faded away. And seeing that it seemed like he never aged that could take quite a while.

And even if he could have died it wouldn't have mattered. They were destined for two very different places him and her. Logan had never been a particularly good man before, and when he left this world he'd be headed for a rather hot climate. But Jean? There was only one place Jean belonged now that she couldn't be with his side, she belonged in heaven. She was a martyr, dying to save the world after the Phoenix grabbed control of her. Because, even if the Phoenix was a part of her, it was not who she was. Jean Grey was simply that, _Jean_. Yes, he could picture her in heaven now, and it saddened him to know that he'd never see her again.

His claws disappeared back into his forearms and he dried away the few drops of blood left on his knuckles from where they'd cut through the skin. No one seemed to have noticed his claws, or maybe they just didn't care. Or more likely, decided it was best not to say anything to a guy that grew one-foot long and razor-sharp claws from his hands just to make sure said claws ended up in their guts.

Logan downed the last of his beer and threw some dollar bills on the bar before he quickly left the bar. He was feeling restless and couldn't stand another minute there.

The bike was just were he'd left it, and he jumped on it and kicked it to life. Without hesitation he turned onto the road. He decided to take the long way home.

The winds were whipping his hair into his eyes as he drove down the roads with a reckless speed, and he angrily tossed his head to get it out of the way. The darkness was complete now, a heavy veil of clouds hiding the moon and stars. And with the lack of streetlights out here it was almost impossible to see the road, even for Logan's eyes, but that didn't stop him pressing the bike. If he had to concentrate on driving he couldn't think about anything but the road, and that meant he could forget all the painful memories for a small moment, a blissful moment. Even if he cherished Jean's memory it always left him with an ache in his chest that nothing could heal.

As he took a sharp turn that almost made him drive off the road he noticed something up ahead. A shimmering light, pale at first, but soon it grew in intensity. He had no idea what it could be seeing how there was no one living in these areas, in fact there was nothing but trees around. And the lights certainly didn't come from a car, it was too flickering, more like a bonfire but at the same time not.

He released the gas, letting the speed of the bike calm down. He was not a man easily frightened, but he wasn't going to drive straight into something he had no idea what was either.

The light grew as he drove closer, and the colour of it changed. It grew from a pale yellow to a darker orange tinted with red. It behaved like a flame, a fire, but there was something wrong with it. It was almost like the very air was on fire, a great big fireball almost ten feet tall. Only it wasn't a fireball, it was more like a tree in shape, a trunk with great branches of fire stretching for the sky.

He stopped the bike, still with a good distance between him and the apparition. He got off and slowly walked closer. Finally he seemed to notice what was wrong with it, why it couldn't be a fire. The flames didn't come off the ground; in fact, they seemed to start a few feet off the ground, above the asphalt underneath. And inside the flame which wasn't really a flame at all—it smelled wrong, and there were no heat radiating from it at all—there was a shadow of _something_.

Logan had to know what was going on, he just had to. But as he took a step closer and reached out a hand—even if he was too far away to touch the fire—the light, flame, whatever it was, faded instantly. In a moment it was there, bright and fiery, and then there was only darkness.

Logan found himself momentarily blind as his eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness, but when he could see again he couldn't believe what he saw. A shape was lying on the road where the fireball had hovered only seconds earlier. A naked, shivering shape. Its back was towards him, but it was no mistaking it for anything but a woman, a woman with hair red enough that he could see it even in the darkness.

A whisper crossed his lips, "Jean?"

A/N: So, just a short one-shot. It's the first time I've written Logan/Jean actually, but while reading a scene in the novelisation of X2 it just came to me. Even if it takes place after X3. I know it's a very open ending and that I'm kinda evil with leaving it like that, but I liked it that way. Thanks for reading!


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